Neptune
by ChiseHatori
Summary: One night, the Moon resurrects a boy from his death and gives him a name: Jack Frost. Three centuries later, the Big Four defeat Pitch's uprising and save Easter. Meanwhile, Jack wanders the Earth alone and isolated from the rest of the world. In the midst of his downfall, Pitch sees an opportunity to turn a lonely spirit into the perfect villain.


_Pitch black, pale blue_

 _There was a stained glass, variation of the truth_

 _And I felt empty handed_

0-0-0

Jack is weightless in the frisk morning air as he observes the children down below. There is a group at the corner of the street, waiting for the bus to whisk them away to school. They're bundled up against the cold, and Jack makes a point of descending lower to ease the frigid wind in their direction. He allows himself to smile as they shivered. He enjoyed watching people brace the weather. It made him feel validated and alive.

Otherwise, he remains invisible and alone.

He spins upward into the air, just below the stratus clouds, and wills a light snowfall to grace the ground. By the time night falls, the temperature will be below freezing. He will make sure that the area receives an ample amount of snow for the children to enjoy. Jack darts away once the children are gone. He lets the wind take him to his home: a pond forever sealed with ice and frost. It lay deep in the forest, where people never dared to travel. Despite the changing weather year around, he kept the water cold enough to freeze, and snow never melted within a good chunk of the perimeter.

It is, and has always been, his home.

A human had not stepped foot within the densest parts of the forest in centuries. Besides, what did it matter if one did? No one can see him, anyway.

He stores that thought away within the back of his mind, where all his bitter musings had fled since his awakening. Jack's chest feels heavy as he lands on the surface of the pond. He taps his shepherd's hook against the ice and watched intricate patterns of frost dance from the end of the wood. He sighs and slumps onto his back, staring up at the cerulean sky above.

"The world is too damn beautiful to feel so lonely." he whispers.

The wind whistles in his ear, but he ignores it's eagerness to play. He has not felt like doing so in a long, long time.

Laying against the ice, Jack suddenly wishes that he could die. The idea has burdened him for a long time, although he has tried to end his life on multiple occasions.

He had dived into his pond during the coldest winter and sealed the opening shut with thick ice, expecting to drown. Instead, he had discovered that his lungs did not require air. Then, he had attempted to fly as far up into the atmosphere as he could, before he let himself fall back down to the earth. The impact was the most painful moment that he had ever experienced, but two-hundred-and-six broken bones had not been enough to end his life. He had simply lied still and waited for his shattered body to mend. He had not been able to get up for a week.

More recently, he had used the sharpened end of an icicle to carve into his wrists. He had lost entirely too much blood, to the point where he fainted. Alas, he had awakened the next night, still very much alive and well.

Jack still bore the unholy scars from all three attempts. The skin around his eyes had turned permanently blue after his attempt to submerge himself in water. His wrists wore matching ugly lines from when he had tried to drain the blood from his own body. Worst of all, whence his bones had broken after the fall, dozens of scars from where some had snapped and torn through his flesh remained. His skin had quickly become a drawing board filled with ugly blue marks, white splotches of healed flesh, and thin lines from cuts.

He wonders what it will take to end his life – to end the loneliness. What extremes will he have to go to?

Jack rolls over and tucks his knees to his chest. It feels more like a game to him. A morbid, unfunny game, but one of chance nonetheless. If the Moon had brought him to life for a purpose, then he guessed that it has long since forgotten about him.

He lives for nothing - not for the children, not for winter, and not even for himself. And why would he? He is putrid, foul, and hateful. Even if someone, anyone, could see him, no one will ever want to be around him.

As bitter thoughts overwhelmed him, Jack lay his palm on the ice and willed it to form into a weapon. With dull, unseeing eyes, he watches the ice glitter underneath the sun as it raised and molded itself into a sharp, oblong stick. Jack grasps it in his hand and holds it in the light. He sits up and examines the icicle, feeling hopeful that, this time, it will work. This will be the end.

He tips the pointed end toward his chest and presses it against his sweatshirt. One quick thrust, and it will pierce his heart. He closes his eyes and breathes in deeply. The pain is always the worst part.

"Are you sure you want to do that?"

A voice shatters the silence and the icicle clatters to the pond. Jack scrambles to his feet, his heart beating fast. From the darkness of the forest, two golden pinpricks of light cut through the blackness. A shape emerges from its depths, with all the semblance of a human, yet with smoky gray skin. The being steps out onto the ice, staring at Jack with its yellow eyes and a mouth full of sharp teeth. Despite its daunting appearance, the being's hands are clutched together without threatening intentions.

Jack simply looks at the man. A question lingers on his lips, but he is too flabbergasted to speak. Its gaze is directly on him. He thinks that the possibility is unfeasible. No one has ever looked at him before, not in three-hundred years. This has to be a fanciful dream. Maybe he had plunged the ice into his chest. Or maybe…

Jack licks his lips. "Can-can you…" he brings his hands to his chest, clenching them into the fabric above his racing heart. "Can you see me?"

The being grimaces in sympathy, but it managed a slight smile. "Yes, child. My name is Pitch."

Jack gasps and covers his mouth. Tears run unbidden down his cheeks as his knees give away. He collapses back against the ice. He gazes at the being with newfound horror and awe. "Ho-ow?" he asks, struggling to catch his breath. He feels frozen, yet his entire body is trembling.

For years upon years, Jack had talked to people who could not see or hear him, although he liked to pretend that they could. He had seen generations of children grow and have their own kids and die. He had watched over their children, and the ones born after those, without a single child with the ability to look at him, and not through him. He had heard whispers from the North wind, speaking of other spirits that wandered the Earth like him. He had searched far and wide for them until he had lost his faith. Then, he had waited out in the open, hoping that another spirit would see him.

After all this continued to fail, he had given up.

Now, after suffering under the guise of a ghost for centuries, another being can suddenly see him. It feels truly impossible.

Pitch approaches him carefully, as if worried that he will startle him. He reaches his hand down to Jack, and he's almost hesitant to take it. He has never felt another person's skin before. He is unused to another person's presence.

Pitch waits calmly, with his arm extended towards Jack. He finally reaches upward to take the man's gray fingers into his own pale hand. He flinches at first, due to the abrupt warmth, then grasps it uncertainly. Pitch pulls him to his feet, while Jack simply wonders if everyone's skin felt as warm as Pitch's.

After all, he has only ever been able to feel the cold.

0-0-0

Pitch tries not to cringe once the boy touches him. It sends a wave of chills down his spine, but he brings the child to his feet, nevertheless. He smiles outwardly, pushing down his deep disgust. The boy is nothing less than a walking corpse. His flesh is paler than the whitest snow, except for the dark hues of blue and black that encircle his eyes. His irises are an unnatural powder blue with the glazed appearance of someone that has long since lost their sanity. Even the boy's hands are discolored, as if they were bruised.

"How?" the child repeats.

"I am a spirit, like yourself." Pitch explains. Although he knits his brows together in worry, his intent is not to comfort the boy. This spirit will be the opportunity he needs to set his plans in motion. He is aware that this will be his chance to finally unhinge the boy's psyche for good. "What is your name?"

Jack seems taken aback. He releases Pitch's hand and shies away, "J-Jack Frost." he fidgets with the hem of his shirt. "No one has ever asked me that before."

Pitch feigns surprise. "Really? Not even the other spirits?"

Jack shook his head slowly, eyes downcast. "I-I've never met any others."

"Oh, you poor, unfortunate fool." Pitch clucks his tongue and turns his back to the spirit. Jack, of course, stumbles closer, desperate to understand.

"Wh-what? What have I done wrong?"

0-0-0

The spirit isn't looking at him any longer, and its driving him crazy. He wants him to turn back around and face him. He wants to be seen.

Jack rushes forward and grabs the man's cloak. He can't stop the dry sob that tumbles out of his throat. He's on his knees, staring up at Pitch's shoulders and clenching the cloak so tightly that his knuckles turn pale. "Plea-se," he pleads. "I've been alone for so long. Please tell me what I've done wrong."

Pitch sighs. When he turns around, his yellow eyes are glaring down at him. Jack freezes in sudden fear. The once sympathizing spirit now seems darker, as if the very sun is dimming in his presence. But his fingers remain cemented into the fabric of Pitch's cloak. He is torn between fear and the eagerness to feel the touch of someone else's skin again.

"They're ignoring you, Jack."

Jack's eyes widen. His heart feels like it has been crushed. He struggles to stand upright. Jack brings his arms across his abdomen and hugs himself tightly, a habit that he had developed to try to bring himself some sort of comfort. He digs his nails into his sleeves until he can feel them pierce his flesh. The pain is the only thing that keeps him grounded in place.

Ignored. Of course, how could he have been so naïve?

"B-but I," he trails off. He realizes that, now more than ever, his words truly do not matter at all. The joy is gone, replaced by an immense amount of grief. He looks up at the sky, and the Moon is barely visible in the morning light. He can just make out its craters and grooves, despite the sun rising in its place. Another sob rises in his throat. He feels something breaking inside him, but there's nothing he can do about it. The helplessness leaves his mind spinning in desperation.

He glares up at the Moon with tear-filled eyes and screams, "Why?"

His vision is blurry, and his cheeks are wet, but he is still staring at the Moon above. It gazes back, solemn and forever silent.

"Why can't you just let me die?" he whispers, heartbroken, as the anger dissipates in a flash of anguish that fills his body and makes his muscles ache. He hangs his head. He doesn't know what to do next. He is empty inside.

There are footsteps against the ice. Jack pays no attention to them, even when they come closer. He can see Pitch's shadow in front of him. He suddenly wishes that the man would leave.

Then, the icicle from before is presented to him. Jack's head jerks up. Pitch's eyes are cold. There is nothing within them that ever held a hint of kindness. In the moment, the darker spirit is tall and foreboding, perhaps even daring Jack to finish the deed. Pitch grabs his arm, and Jack does not resist his pull. He watches as Pitch uncurls his fingers one-by-one, then places the icicle into his palm. Jack grips it, momentarily relishing the cold against his skin.

"Jack," Pitch begins, his voice surprisingly soft despite the anger in his eyes. "When I first came upon you moments ago, you were prepared to die." his hands are still cupping Jack's. He clings to Pitch's words, like he's tossing him a lifeline.

"They ignored you while you suffered alone. If you had died, they would have never even known." Pitch's lips widen into grin, revealing his sharp teeth. "Why don't you make them notice you instead?" he pushes the icicle into Jack's hand more firmly, and he understands Pitch's insinuations immediately.

Pitch steps backward, his face alight with mischievous intent. "The Big Four would be a good place to start. Have you heard of them?"

Jack nods, his eyebrows creased in thought. "I-I've heard things about them…from the North wind."

Pitch seems pleased with his response and continues. "They're the most powerful and important spirits alive, but they tend not to waste their time on small fry like you and I." Pitch leans closer to him. "Tell me, when was the last time you ever received a gift from Santa, or a sweet dream from the Sandman? How about one of those blasted eggs from the Easter bunny?"

Jack scoffs at the sheer idea of such wonderful things. Nothing good ever happens to him. "Never."

"Neither have I." Jack flinches at Pitch's dark tone. He had never given thought to other spirits like himself. Had Pitch really suffered as much as he had?

"We are more alike than you think, Jack. We could work together to bring them down." he grips Jack's shoulders, forcing the youngest to look at him. "We could make them notice us."

Jack feels a fire ignite inside him and, for the first time, he has another bitter reason to live.

"I'm in." he speaks with certainty. He has a new purpose.

Pitch simply grins in response. "Come with me."

He beckons the child forward. Together, they dissipate into darkness.


End file.
